


Replica

by haruhiko (iacobus)



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Fedrinka, Food Kink, Foursome, Foursome - M/M/M/M, Gay As a Tennis Player, Gay Sex, Group Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Rimming, Sex and Chocolate, Sports, Swiss, Tennis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 11:00:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2809859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iacobus/pseuds/haruhiko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If Seve wanted to roll his eyes any harder he would have had to pluck them out of his head, have Rafael Nadal hit them with as much topspin as possible, and then find them and pop them back in.</p><p>“That settles it,” he said. “DEFINITELY no Christmas market.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Replica

**Author's Note:**

> _This is an explicit crackfic for the winter holidays, one based solely on[ **this photo**](http://31.media.tumblr.com/a90a77ad287478d78cd7b2e621f1ab94/tumblr_ngw17pPSEj1teiy03o1_1280.jpg) taken after the 2014 Davis Cup final (SUI def. FRA)._
> 
> _You can read a Chinese translation of this fic by[Heline Zhang](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Heline_Zhang/pseuds/Heline_Zhang) HERE: [三只肉鸽 (中文)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3555230). Thank you, Heline! :)_
> 
> \- - - - - - - - - -

“Guuuuys,” Roger whined theatrically in French as the trio ushered him out of the hired van and back toward the hotel, “I’m not tired! At all! Let’s go to the Christmas market or something.” He stopped dead in his tracks, grabbing Michi by the necktie.

“Look!” he whispered reverently in Michi’s ear, pointing at some festive looking lights a few blocks away. A more sober man than Michi and one more familiar with Lille would have noted that Roger’s lights were in nearly the exact opposite direction from the market.

“It’s getting late and you’d just embarrass yourself,” Marco reminded Roger. He’d taken the first opportunity once they got off the van to put his arm around Roger’s waist as they led him back to the hotel, and now he used this moment to smack the man on the ass. “Keep walking.”

Instead of yelping in pain or surprise at the smack, Roger giggled and flexed his buttcheeks. “Stop it, Stan.”

“That wasn’t me!” Stan muttered, his champagne-saturated face turning a shade redder. He tried leading Roger with a gentle tug on his hand, but the man wouldn’t move.

Stan glared at Marco. “Why didn’t we let the driver take us right to the hotel?”

Marco tightened his grip around Roger’s waist and burped obnoxiously at Stan, his pretty features contorting with the effort. “Roger needs to walk off some of this alcohol before we go back.”

Stan made a face, but he knew Marco was right. He pulled at Roger’s hand again, but nothing happened.

“Seve, do something!” he yelled at the man a short distance behind them.

Seve was busy checking his phone and didn’t even look up as he walked toward them, his gait brisk and assured and his suit jacket crisp and clean, like he hadn’t downed about half a magnum of Moët all by himself. “What do you expect me to do?”

“SUCK MY HAIRY DICK,” Roger bellowed at the sky in Baseldeutsch. He went limp with laughter, clinging to Michi’s shoulder as they cackled into each other’s faces.

If Seve wanted to roll his eyes any harder he would have had to pluck them out of his head, have Rafael Nadal hit them with as much topspin as possible, and then find them and pop them back in.

“That settles it,” he said. “DEFINITELY no Christmas market.”

Roger made a petulant noise, sounding like a freakish baritone parody of one of his girls, but he took one look at Seve’s face and started walking.

Stan sighed in relief and resumed leading Roger gently by the arm, trying to ignore Marco’s arm twined firmly around Roger’s torso. If it wasn’t for Roger’s back, they’d probably be literally dragging him back to the hotel.

\- - - - -

The ITF had been kind enough to house the players in plush rooms at a nice hotel in Lille for the past week, but Roger had personally upgraded Seve to a full-on luxury suite so that they’d have a place to gather as a team before training and practice at the stadium, and after their matches. It was to these rooms that the group headed, despite Seve weakly protesting that they should stop bothering him and go get some sleep in their own rooms before the heavy media schedule and trip to Lausanne the next day.

It was clear once they stumbled in through the door that Seve couldn’t have gotten rid of them anyway: besides the fact that apparently the entire team’s replica Davis Cup trophies had been sent to Seve’s suite and lined up against a wall, someone had also arranged for the front room to be laid out with a small buffet, and the mellow, warm smells of fried potatoes, cheese, wine, and chocolate were instantly captivating, especially to a group of men who had trained hard all year and were now beginning to come out of a celebratory drunken haze.

“Ha!” Marco crowed, forgetting about Roger as he made a beeline to the chafing dishes. “Rösti! This one’s... onion and parsley,” he said, tearing off a piece with his fingers and chewing on it, “and this one... Emmental and apple, haha.” He poked his hand back into the tray, blowing on his fingers as he transported another piece of potato pancake to his mouth. “Hot and still crunchy,” he said between happy chews.

Michi sidled up next to Marco and whistled at the food. “Aha, they have cervelat too! Look, guys,” he said, grabbing a plump grilled sausage and moving it suggestively in and out of his mouth without using his hands.

Every stupid little thing was hilarious to Roger at the moment and he started tittering again, this time holding onto Stan for dear life. Stan grinned in spite of himself.

Seve went over to Marco and Michi quickly and smacked them both gently on the backs of their heads. “There’re tongs and plates right there! And you better not be putting that back in the tray, Michi.”

Michi just shook his head at his captain, the sausage waggling back and forth between his lips.

Seve stared forbiddingly as he quickly stirred a small pot of Gruyère and white wine back to a desirable consistency. “If you choke on that thing I’m not saving you.”

Roger guffawed as he went to the other end of the modest buffet table, pulling a willing Stan along with him. “I get the feeling you’ve said those words before, Severino.”

The captain ignored that remark. “Did you set this up, Roger? It’s nice.” He dipped a cube of crusty bread into the pot using his fingers, his instructions to Marco and Michi already forgotten as he popped the morsel into his mouth.

Roger’s tipsy demeanor somehow managed to make his smile seem even more smug as he crunched noisily on a strip of pork schnitzel. “Yeah, earlier in the week I told the hotel to make sure we had something to celebrate with tonight, win or lose.”

“And you told them to give us this... cliché?” Stan sniffed as he surveyed the table, nevertheless spearing a bright strawberry and giving it a quick swirl in a dainty cauldron of warm, liquid chocolate. He didn’t bother to pick up a plate, eating directly off the long fork.

Roger grinned fondly at Stan. “Still, better than the boring Davis Cup dinner, right?” With his back to the others, he reached over and wiped some chocolate off a surprised Stan’s lips. The grin turned wicked as Roger placed the dirty finger in his mouth, slowly licking off the chocolate as he maintained eye contact with Stan. His other hand went to Stan’s crotch, gently and expertly kneading the soft parts through the thin fabric of Stan’s suit pants until they started to stiffen.

Stan was too distracted by the sudden heat in his face and the thrum of blood pulsing in his loins to do more than pull away and glare at Roger’s cheeky smile as the man grabbed them both a plate. _Later_ , he mouthed at Roger, blushing harder when he saw the hungry look in the other man’s eyes.

\- - - - -

Despite their initial interest in the food and their booze-fueled appetites, in the end not much was eaten. Training hard for most of the year made rich, heavy foods seem even richer and heavier, and even though they didn’t get to eat much at the dinner earlier just sampling a bit of everything Roger had arranged for ended up being more than enough.

In that infuriating way of his Roger had anticipated their appetites perfectly, and the buffet was small enough that after they’d lost interest in it there was hardly anything left but some fruit and a bottle of sweet Riesling, which they opened and drank slowly as they sprawled out on the couches. Their dress shoes had long since been kicked off, their suit jackets tossed into a corner, and they lounged like cats, their limbs oozing over the furniture and their white shirts untucked and partly unbuttoned, red ties loose and askew. They took turns making gentle fun of Seve, who’d fallen asleep in a plush armchair midway through their late-night snacking.

Stan was the first to get bored of this and disappeared to his room for a few minutes. He returned with one hand behind his back, which Marco immediately noticed.

“What’s that?”

Roger, still tipsy but now stuck in a state of relaxed bliss instead of constant giggles, craned his neck over to where Marco was looking.

“Nothing,” Stan stalled, keeping his hand behind his back. “Just something I asked a bunch of fans to give me after the match today. Marco, Michi, can you join me in the next room? Just you guys. And bring your trophies,” he said innocently, making sure to grab his own with his free hand and to keep facing Roger as he edged his way toward Seve’s bedroom.

Marco and Michi got up immediately, giggling and practically stumbling over each other to grab their trophies off the low table and join Stan to see what was happening. The alcohol clearly hadn’t worn off for any of them in any substantial way, Roger thought as he stood up slowly, too relaxed to bother reacting quickly as his team abandoned him.

“Hey, I want to come too! Should I bring my trophy?” He picked it up, anticipating the answer.

“Yes bring it, but NOT NOW,” Stan called out. “You stay there until we’re ready.”

“Make it quick,” Roger called back. His curiosity intensified when he heard Marco and Michi’s surprised cackles, and he shifted from one foot to the other restlessly, staring absently at Seve as the man dozed.

A couple moments later, Stan called out, “Okay, now.”

Roger walked into the bedroom, moving slowly in case his teammates decided to pounce on him or spray him in the face with water or champagne or something, but once he saw them he guffawed. They were standing in a line, wearing paper masks of his own face. The three of them stood in identical poses, trophies in their right hands and left hands behind their backs. The effect was enhanced by the trio's rumpled white shirts and drooping red ties.

“What do you think of your team?” Michi’s voice came out of the mask on the left.

Roger chuckled and lifted all three masks high enough to see their faces, shaking his head at them. “Funny. Are there any of you guys that I can wear?”

Marco gave Roger a fond look. “You know why there aren’t any of us,” he said without rancor, handing Roger a cutout of his own face. “Put this on!”

Roger raised his eyebrows but did as he was told. “Why should I bother? It’s still me, just younger.”

“Because we need to take pictures with these,” Stan said, putting his mask back down and pointing his phone at himself. “Magnus will get a kick out of this.”

While they were snapping photos of each other, Marco turned to Roger. “Could you tell who was who right when you walked in?”

Roger snorted. “Of course. The masks don’t hide that you’re the skinniest and Stan is the fattest.” Stan growled and swatted at Roger’s arm as Marco and Michi laughed.

Roger dodged the hit nimbly, starting to giggle again. “Besides, everyone’s hair gives them away. And we’re all slightly different heights,” he said, running a hand through his own curls.

Stan thought for a moment, grinning slowly as he came upon an idea. “Fine then, go back out again! And when you come back in, try to guess who’s who.”

“Okaaaay,” Roger drawled, amused. He stepped outside and Michi shut the door after him.

“Come back in,” Stan called after just a few seconds.

This time, when Roger walked in, the room was nearly in complete darkness. The lights were off and both layers of curtains were drawn, and the only light in the room was that coming in from behind him.

“Shut the door! And then you have to guess who is who,” Stan called out.

Roger shut the door and let his eyes adjust, using what little of the street lighting that managed to filter through the curtains to make his way over to the guys.

His three teammates were leaning against a dresser, carefully posed so that they all seemed to be the same height. In the darkness, Roger couldn’t really make out much of anything, aside from three guys with his face staring at him without moving.

“Wow, I really can’t tell. This is a bit creepy actually...”

They were silent as Roger took another step closer and stared in confusion, apart from some suppressed laughter that escaped as air through their noses.

“Don’t I get a hint or something?”

The Rogers kept laughing silently, shaking their heads at him.

Exasperated, the real Roger went up to the one on the right. “I know how to tell who’s who,” he said. “And don’t any of you make a sound, I’ll prove it to you.”

With a quick, fluid movement Roger put his arms around the masked man and kissed him on the neck hard, nibbling and licking at the skin close to the collarbone. The man stiffened, but didn’t move or make any noise. The other two were motionless, like they were too surprised to even look.

Roger moved to the man in the center and did the same thing, except he took a bit more time with this one, moving his mouth passionately up and down the man’s neck until his prey started to breathe hard.

Finally Roger went to the one on the left and repeated himself, spending even more time. This time, the man eagerly threw his head back, exposing more of his neck to Roger’s hungry mouth.

Suddenly Roger pulled away and slapped his thigh triumphantly. “First guy I kissed was Michi, second was Marco, and third Stan.”

As if released from a spell all three of them ripped off their masks. “What? How can you tell anything from that?” Marco demanded, switching back on the lights. Everyone looked a bit embarrassed.

Everyone except Roger, who snickered and squinted into the sudden brightness. “Michi’s the only one who didn’t get a boner, and Stan is way more into the neck action than you ever were.”

“WHAAAT?” Stan and Marco said in unison.

“Oh come on,” Roger said blithely, feeling relaxed and happy, “don’t act like we don’t all know what’s what and who’s doing who.” He turned to Michi. “Sorry for kissing your boyfriend. It’s pretty nice of you to let him crush on me all the time.”

Michi chuckled and put his arms around Marco from behind, nuzzling Marco’s hair with his nose, but Marco just stared at Roger, his mouth hanging open. “How did you- I-“ he stuttered, absently batting at Michi’s hands even as they began to unbutton his shirt and rub his chest seductively.

“And sorry for kissing your boyfriend, Marco. I always wanted to know what Michi tastes like,” Roger said, jiggling his eyebrows.

“Ahhhhhm. Shouldn’t you apologize to me too?” Stan said, eyebrow raised and arms crossed.

“Of course,” Roger murmured. “Sorry to be kissing other guys.” He went over to Stan and kissed him softly on the lips. At the second gentle kiss Stan uncrossed his arms and put them around Roger, kissing back hard. Their tongues rubbed against each other and their hands began to move under each other’s shirts, running over warm skin, over soft chest hair, down below the waist to their asscheeks, their cocks.

After an extended bout of intense kissing that left them both breathless and flushed, they broke apart and looked over at Marco and Michi.

Roger snorted. Marco and Michi were still leaning against the dresser, but they had both stripped down to just their underwear: Marco in form-fitting black boxer briefs, Michi in a pair of short, dark blue boxers. Michi had already run out and brought in one of the small fondue pots from the other room, and he was now painting Marco’s chest with the leftover chocolate.

Roger and Stan watched, captivated as Michi began to slowly lick the chocolate off Marco’s smooth, toned torso. Marco’s eyes were shut and his mouth was open, and he let out a low, soft moan as Michi licked the last of the chocolate off one of his nipples and began sucking on it hard. They fell onto the room’s ridiculously large bed, Michi covering Marco with his body as they began to grind against each other.

Stan didn’t realize how hard he’d gotten watching the pair pleasure each other until he felt Roger undoing his suit pants and freeing his cock from his underwear. He closed his eyes as Roger got on his knees, gasping at the warm current of pleasure that flowed through him when Roger took him into his mouth. After a few moments of this he pulled Roger back up onto his feet and they undressed each other frantically, urgently, with Stan grabbing the remaining chocolate and pushing Roger toward the other side of the bed.

Roger laid back, his mouth opening in silent pleasure as Stan copied Michi’s earlier actions, painting Roger’s chest with chocolate and licking it all clean. Stan licked further and further down, down the flat, furry belly, down until he was between Roger’s thighs. He popped Roger’s cock into his mouth, trying not to smile at how eagerly Roger pitched his hips forward, how hard Roger was gripping his hair. He ran his tongue up and down the underside of Roger’s shaft, brushed his lips back and forth on the tip of Roger’s dick, teasing the man until he started whining softly with both need and enjoyment, whines that became muffled when Marco leaned over and kissed Roger full on the mouth.

Stan knew that at any other time he would have burned with jealousy at the sight of Roger’s lips being plundered by Marco’s, but at the current moment the show was just turning him on even more. He continued to suck Roger off, watching as Marco rubbed Roger’s chest with one hand as they kissed, and then as Marco grunted with pleasure as Michi lifted his legs up to prod between Marco’s asscheeks with his tongue. Stan observed Michi hungrily and then did the same thing to Roger, eliciting a loud, slow moan from the man as he threw his head back against his pillow.

But Stan wasn’t able to continue tasting Roger’s ass, because Roger sat up and said in a thick voice, “Come on guys, let’s give our Davis Cup hero what he deserves.”

Before Stan knew what was happening he was on his back in the center of the bed, Roger’s cock in his mouth, Marco’s mouth on his cock, and Michi’s tongue in his ass. Roger caressed Stan’s chest and abs with one hand as Stan sucked him off, tweaking his own nipples with his other hand as he bit his lip, and then Stan’s eyes widened when he saw Michi reach down to his discarded pants and pull out a wallet filled with condoms and packets of lube, and not any actual money.

\- - - - -

Seve woke to the sound of a blaring siren in his pocket: it was the alarm he’d set on his phone the day before. Bleary-eyed, he shut off the alarm and looked around, taking in the sight of the empty buffet table and the empty couches, the weak morning light smoldering gently as it poured in through the windows. Everyone must have gone back to their rooms during the night, he thought.

He was loathe to get up. It wasn’t so much that he had a hangover—indeed, his head wasn’t pounding nearly as much as he’d been expecting—it was that the armchair was large, plush, and supremely comfy.

Nevertheless after a few minutes Seve stirred, grunting as he stretched out his limbs repeatedly and then eventually stood up. He shuffled over to the empty buffet and opened a bottle of water, downing nearly all of it in one go, and then picked at the remaining fruit on the table, realizing that he was ravenous as he’d fallen asleep after taking just a few bites. After polishing off the fruit and the last cube of sponge cake he headed to the bedroom.

Seve opened the door and froze, not quite understanding what he was seeing. His team had left the lights on all night, but it wasn’t the brightness currently searing his brain.

Marco and Michi lay sleeping on the far side of the huge bed, wearing nothing but their underwear. Hilariously, they’d fallen asleep facing each other, with a hand inside each other’s shorts.

On the near side of the bed, right next to them, Roger and Stan were naked. Roger was on his back, snoring loudly, an arm stretched out so that Stan could use his chest as a pillow. Seve was only saved from getting an eyeful of Roger’s penis because Stan had one of his legs thrown over Roger’s crotch; the tradeoff, of course, was that Seve had an excellent view of Stan’s fuzzy balls and rounded ass. Individual Davis Cup trophies, a small fondue pot, and paper cutouts of Roger’s face littered the floor around the bed.

“Jesus Christ,” Seve muttered. He walked over to a suitcase by the bed and did his best not to look over at the piles of flesh as he brushed a copy of Roger's face off the luggage, searching for fresh clothes. Once he found them he began to undress, looking forward to a hot shower.

It was Seve’s great misfortune to be completely naked when Roger whispered, “Good morning, Captain Sexerino,” as Stan yanked him onto the bed for a group hug.


End file.
